


Speechless

by halocentury



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Because Penguin, Blood and Injury, But Multiple References to Blood and Bleeding, Canon Typical Violence, Case Fic, Hugo Strange's Experiments, M/M, Not Excessively Violent, Season 5 Doesn't Happen, The Bridges Are Still In Tact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27464197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halocentury/pseuds/halocentury
Summary: Jeremiah didn’t blow up the bridges, even though he tried. After Penguin's phone calls with the GCPD, his plans were thoroughly thwarted.But Jeremiah isn't the first to be thwarted or betrayed by Penguin.Punishment is swift.No harm can be caused by a Penguin that can not speak.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Jim Gordon
Kudos: 23





	Speechless

**Author's Note:**

> I initially wanted to finish and post this last weekend, as something of a Halloween fic, but sadly this didn't go the creepy route I was hoping for.

It didn’t make sense that Jeremiah would be so fast to try again. His failed attempt at blowing up the bridges was fresh in everyone’s mind and people were getting back to their normal, previous routines, even if they were on edge, wary about another incident to happen.

But for another bomb threat, along the riverside, didn’t make sense. 

It had to be Jeremiah, he had the bombs at his disposal. He claimed to be a patient man, but to follow up the last bombing less than three days later was too soon, at least since he wasn’t making any further demands. He would need to rethink his strategy, take time to plan. And despite the showmanship, the need for attention even in destruction, it was away from the centre of the city. Jeremiah had managed to take down the Clocktower as well as the Mayor’s office. He wanted the action to be front and centre for the biggest crowd possible.

There was no guarantee how much time they had, if the warehouses were truly abandoned that it was safe for the bomb squad to get in and dismantle the bombs. Harvey and his team had cleared the one warehouse, the squad inside with plenty of time to dismantle the bomb.

It was quiet, no taunts or gunshots coming from the shadows or the overhead catwalks. It should’ve been reassuring but it wasn’t, the unease biting more into his bones the further they made their way inside the second warehouse. It wasn’t until he saw a familiar design up ahead, the bomb, the red glow somewhat blotted out by the figure standing in front of it.

Tightening his grip on his gun Jim continued forward, the team behind him, picking up his pace a fraction, controlled but not too fast to cause Jeremiah to act irrationally, despite all his claims to not be. “GCPD, put your hands up!” he hollered to the man, standing with his hands aloft, detonator in one hand. “Jeremiah Valeska, you’re under arrest!”

The other man didn’t move, didn’t make a peep.

The longer he stared he realised that the posture was all wrong, not to mention Jeremiah looked slimmer, and shorter. The darkness in the warehouse, the bomb glowing behind the figure, could be playing tricks on his mind, but Jim had a hunch that this wasn’t just a bomb threat. 

“Keep your guns on him,” Jim instructed as he lowered his arms, hands still on his gun, jogging quietly to where the man stood. At least, that’s what he thought, until he saw the faint, almost undiscernible, wires that suspended both hands in the air. Closer still his heart sank, recognising the man, and the figure, for who he really was. 

Blood oozed down from a deep gash above Oswald’s eyebrow, his eye closed and sealed tacky with the blood over his eyelashes through to his cheekbone. A pulse check confirmed that the man was alive, just unconscious.

The detonator was secure in his hand, the wire securing his wrist, but the brace around Oswald’s hand ensured that his grip wouldn’t falter in his unconscious state, keeping the detonator upright with his thumb hovering over the button that would have the bomb exploding.

Which, when he glanced back to the bomb, had two minutes on the clock.

Any slip of his hand, by wire or adjusting the brace even the slightest bit in the wrong direction, could have the detonator falling out of his hand. At the wrong impact with the ground, the bomb would blow. Or perhaps, Oswald’s thumb would slip from its poised position and compress the button. 

Neither could be an option.

“Get the bomb squad in now!” A pat down of Oswald’s jacket didn’t amount to more than he anticipated, finding his cell phone and his switchblade, but trying to cut the wires down was a bit too precarious, at least with the one hand holding the detonator. 

“They’re still taking apart the other bomb,” Harper called from further back, having stepped forwards from the rest of the team, her radio in hand. 

Cursing under his breath, he eyed the wires, hoping that they weren’t thicker than what they looked, flipping open the switchblade to start sawing through the wire for the empty hand. “Everyone, get out!” Harper didn’t follow the order, which he was about to argue with, until she shouldered the weight of Oswald dropping to one side, arm free

“How did he even get his hands on Valeska’s bombs?” Harper questioned, as he sawed quickly on the next wire, once he had Harper securing his hand to keep the detonator in an upright position.

“I don’t…” He was a little too occupied to think along that line, but mostly wondering how Oswald would’ve been able to knock himself out, detonator in hand, and tie himself up. 

It didn’t add up. The situation was entirely wrong.

“We’ll ask him once we have him in holding,” he insisted when he had the wire cut, jutting his shoulder under Oswald’s free side. He wound up pocketing the knife in his own jacket, just wanting to get out fast. 

Arm around Oswald, he cast one last glance to the bomb. He should’ve kept a closer look, but with only thirty seconds left, they wouldn’t be making it to the doors in time. They had enough time to get out of the worst of the blast radius, which he dictated with a loud order to run.

When the explosion did happen, knocking them all to the ground, Jim hoisted himself onto his elbows, looking to Harper, who luckily didn’t look or act injured. A little dirty, as he suspected he looked too, sprawled on the floor, dirt covering her face.

It was the weak movement of Oswald’s hand, the one not holding the detonator, that had him shaking Oswald by the shoulder. “Oswald?” 

He rolled him onto his back, friction burns on both of his cheeks, but Oswald was blearily opening his eyes. He opened his mouth to reply, but got no further, wincing from the pain in his face before almost touching his forehead. “Don’t touch your head, you need first aid,” Jim warned him.

Oswald barely nodded, in the process of replying, but his head listed to the side before his eyes closed again.

* 

It seemed likely that Oswald had suffered a bad head injury, not just the wound on the brow but slipping back unconscious. He would’ve liked to have taken him back to the precinct for questioning, but Harper, following protocol more than he would’ve at the moment, radioed out to request paramedics at the scene. 

He and Harper were checked over and given a clean bill of health.

Without Oswald awake to confirm or deny how he was feeling, he was secured to a stretcher and lifted back into the ambulance. 

Harper turned back to him, regarding him expectantly. “Do you want me to go to the hospital, or will you be going?”

He was predictable, and yet, as Captain he should oversee the scene of the crime. He wanted to argue that Harvey and himself knew the bombs were the Jeremiah special. Considering Harvey’s personal experience with them, and Lucius’ coaching, he could readily oversee the processing. 

“Yeah, I’ll go in the ambulance, otherwise Harvey will be without a car.” The paramedics, still standing behind the ambulance, about to close the doors, nodded in understanding and kept the door open so he could climb in. 

He spent longer than he anticipated in the waiting room at the hospital, glancing to the clock several times within half an hour. It was at the hour mark after he arrived that a doctor called for him. “Captain Gordon?”

He got up from his chair, approaching the woman who called for him, the hallway bustling behind her. It was hard to believe that less than a week ago the hospital staff was run by a skeleton crew. “Is Penguin stable enough for questioning?” he inquired.

“Stable, yes,” she replied, nodding crisply, though the way she answered, avoiding addressing the other half of his question, had him lifting both eyebrows. “There is something… wrong with him, not caused by any medical injury. He won’t be able to talk to you, as he couldn’t even talk to us.”

Squinting he tried to puzzle what the problem could be. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’ll take you to his room.” Oswald wasn’t kept that far away from the waiting room, and a security officer stood at the door, nodding in greeting of Jim. Inside Oswald looked like he was sleeping, but with his wrist handcuffed to the bed rail. “Mr. Penguin, Captain Gordon is here to see you.”

He was here to question him, but a heavy sigh had Oswald turning his head to find Jim, chest heaving and sinking. He gestured helplessly, rather aggravated, with his free hand, to which the doctor shrugged. “Yes, I understand, but he doesn’t understand.” 

Jim glanced from the doctor back to Oswald, just in time to see him roll his eyes. “Right.” This seemed quite ridiculous; he had a suspect to question, perhaps arrest, but he was still under the belief that Oswald wasn’t behind the bombings. The bombs belonged to Jeremiah, and last he heard, the other man had good reason to try and kill the Penguin. Oswald was the informant who led to the dismantling of the bombs and relocating them into police possession. And apparently Oswald had a couple of former demolition experts who were willing to work for him again for the right price. They managed to get their own neutralizing devices to the bridges when it was determined the vans were delivering the next set of bombs. Short of killing Penguin by the bomb at the warehouse, framing him would be an effective means to get him sent back to Arkham. 

He wanted to avoid sending Oswald back to Arkham. Third time was often called a charm, but he knew by now, or at least suspected, that this was another setup and he wouldn’t get it wrong again. “Are you feeling any better?”

Eyebrows lifting up, expression dry, Oswald shook his head.

Jim forced himself to relax his shoulders, not wanting to look too annoyed in front of the doctor. “Do you want to try saying that out loud?” 

Oswald nodded quickly, but when he went to open his mouth Jim’s gaze briefly flicked from his mouth to his throat. He recognised the shape, knowing what it looked like for someone to mouth the word ‘No,’ silently admonished by his mother many times over the years he lived in her house. 

Oswald’s lips moved, and he recognised his answer of no, and he saw the shift of movement in his Adam’s apple, but no sound followed.

“There was a little accident in the process of giving him stitches,” the doctor explained, stepping towards the bed, beside him rather than closer to Oswald. Oswald snorted and her expression shifted to apologetic. “Now, if rumour holds true, I know Mr. Penguin has a high threshold for pain, but the nurse who did his stitches, well, he was quite nervous, and had an accident. He dropped the tray with the equipment, and the business end of the needle stabbed into his hand. On most people that would cause a startled cry, or several choice words, but when Penguin got injured, he looked like he cried out, but the sound didn’t come out.”

Jim looked from the doctor and back to Oswald. He wouldn’t past the other man to be difficult, especially all that had happened recently. Oswald had many reasons to be angry with him, the thought leading to a dull feeling in his chest. 

“After the bombings this morning, we need to investigate any possible leads, and… Penguin is our best to start the investigation. Is he healthy enough to leave the hospital?” he asked, knowing that the doctor would know his health situation and answer for Oswald.

“He’s going to have some pain from the knock to his head, but nothing that ibuprofen won’t fix and there appears to be no medical trauma to cause him to lose his voice. There is nothing in his current state that needs to be monitored in hospital, so he’s free to go.” She didn’t look satisfied by saying as much, clearly puzzled by his condition, but motioned for the security guard. Stepping away from the bed, the man unlocked the cuffs. 

Back in the precinct, after being further processed by the analyst who was inspecting his clothes for any evidence, Oswald was seated in his office. Jim was consulting with Lucius and Harvey on the opposite side of the closed door. Lucius was looking unimpressed, but couldn’t deny that Harvey didn’t have good reason to be excited. “I don’t condone this,” Lucius insisted, glancing between him and Harvey, “Even if it is for medical verification.”

“You don’t have to be involved in this,” Harvey added, eager to enter the office to do his part of the plan. 

“I have a feeling that I need to be involved.” Whether it was with a compress, or to test for a second head injury, Lucius didn’t know, but glanced to Jim. “Are you sure there is no other way to test the doctor’s theory out?”

“It’s the easiest, and fastest way.” Jim warily watched Harvey from the corner of his eye. It was a plan, and it should be effective, even though he wasn’t entirely behind it. “You only have one chance at this so…” 

He didn’t want to say the words, and with Lucius shaking his head, he clenched his jaw and opened the door, him and Lucius entering, Jim sitting on his side of the desk and Lucius standing slightly off to his left. Oswald watched them both, curiously watching Lucius take a spot. 

“Well, I have to admit, I’m not sure what will be the best way to question you about the morning, but I do have a pad of paper,” Jim explained, once he supplied Oswald with the item along with a pencil. 

Oswald accepted them, setting them on the table in front of him despite shaking his head.

Moving as lightly as a dancer, and silent for perhaps the one and only moment in his life, Harvey slipped inside the office, the door left open in order to not creak on the hinges. Lucius was looking at his last M.E. report, which he had been reading before his presence was requested, expression schooled carefully despite knowing what would happen.

Harvey struck, hand coming fast and hard to the back of Oswald’s head, slamming him face first to the desk.

It took barely a glance up for Lucius to catch the expression of pain and shock on Oswald’s face, the shape of his mouth one of anger and a scream, wide and lips shaking. 

It should’ve been a scream, Jim and Lucius both realised, but the only sound was the thunk of impact of face to desk.

“Do I get to do that again?” Harvey asked, looking like a man who had lived out his greatest dream.

Oswald swatted out for him, or at least tried to, dazedly lifting his head. His stitches hadn’t reopened but blood was trickling down his lip and a bruise looked like it was forming under the friction burn on his right cheek. 

“No you don’t.” Rubbing his own cheek with his thumb, Jim surveyed Oswald and Harvey. “So… am I to believe that according to the doctor, that there is no medical reason for you to have lost your voice?”

Oswald shifted his glare away from Harvey to Jim, lip almost curling into a sneer, but the wince that followed cut it short. 

“We have a cold compress, I’ll be back,” Lucius explained, leaving the three men to determine a solution to the bigger problem. 

When he returned to the office, handing a cold compress to Oswald, who did his best to position it over his cheek and the injured part of his lip, Harvey was holding up the pad of paper. “Doesn’t this look like… what are those tests called? Ink blots?”

“Rorschach,” Lucius answered, looking at the paper, aware of the sullen look on the visible half of Oswald’s face.

“We thought we could get him to answer our questions by writing them out, but this is what happened. First we thought if words couldn’t be written, that maybe he could draw out his answers, like Pictionary?” Harvey huffed out a laugh, thumped the pad against his other hand. “Still looks an ink test. Well, pencil test.”

With his free hand, Oswald rubbed his temple.

Lucius glanced to Jim, who seemed to be close to clenching his fingers together, pressed down against his desk. “The only way we can gather information currently is with yes and no questions, which limits our progress considerably. We can’t even make progress using sign language since there is a learning curve but… whatever this is, it has affected communication not just on a verbal level, but also written,” Lucius pointed out, making it known how limited they were, to which Jim frowned. “Chances are, even with sign language, that could be hampered too.”

“Well, let’s starts with the most pertinent question.” Settling his hands flat on the desk, Jim leaned forward, attention on Oswald. “Were you responsible for the explosion in the warehouse on the riverfront?” 

Oswald shook his head, then shook his head again when Harvey asked if he knew who was responsible for the bombings. It was going to be a long day if they were left trying to narrow down questions based on a nod or a shake, especially on Bullock’s next question – “Do you know why you were at the warehouse?” 

“Do you know who took you to the warehouse?” 

Jim reasoned the answer would be another no but the phone on his desk rang. “Jim Gord-”

“I do hope my bombs fulfilled their purposes.”

“Jeremiah,” he greeted loudly, cutting the interrogation short, everyone turning to look to at him. “Only one of your bombs did, the other was dismantled in time by our bomb squad. It seems like you’re losing your touch.”

“A worthy expenditure, even to lose one to your clumsy fingers,” Jeremiah commented, unaffected by the barb, cool from wherever he was hunkered down. “I can’t say I will miss that bothersome man.”

“Penguin? No, he’s actually sitting across from me in my office,” Jim added, smiling faintly while only the corner of Oswald’s mouth twitched.

“Hmm, that is a disappointment,” Jeremiah commented, and this time there was a different inflection in his voice, the pitch slightly lower. There seemed to be another noise in the background too, maybe a second person, or a computer, at a soft fluctuating sort of hum.

“He seems to be quite capable of ruining your plans, for a – is it the third time now?” Jim asked, refocussing on the conversation. “Though we can’t quite understand what you would gain by blowing up two warehouses on the waterfront, so far away from the centre of attention, as you normally prefer.”

“My plans? No, I lent them out to an interested party. I was told that there would be a chance that one of the bombs wouldn’t fulfill the expected goal, but – knowing who else would be involved, I was willing to let them take my bombs.” His voice was more chipper, willing to engage again. “Oswald Cobblepot not only led to my brother’s death, but he informed the police department how to take down my bombs. I agreed that the suitable punishment for him was death. He has a nasty habit of getting on people’s bad sides, making them angry enough to retaliate, not just me.”

That was true enough. If they wanted to narrow down who wanted to get revenge on Penguin, they had a lot of people to weed out. They could try to determine who would be willing to conspire with Jeremiah but even that was a doubtful angle to pursue since the man had, by all reports, only been accompanied by his followers, and working independently from the rest of Gotham’s criminals.

They had no leads. 

“And they just so happened to reach out to you?” Jim asked, hoping to get one more hint of a clue.

“Conveniently so. I can be quite generous when the deal is in my favour.”

So likely – not Barbara.

One down, many still left.

“Do tell the bird that I hope he’s on his last wings. Good day, Jim.”

Hanging up his phone, he eyed Oswald, an uncooperative source, but not by his own choice. Reading the frustration in his set shoulders Oswald jerked back to sit straight in his seat, looking away with a perturbed air. He had shifted the ice pack to his knee, which he hadn’t even considered probably got jarred with the fall in the warehouse. Knowing that he had his own stash of extra strength Ibuprofen in the top drawer of his desk, he started rummaging. “By Jeremiah’s claim, which – whether it’s honest or not, he loaned out his bombs. He didn’t say to who,” he explained.

“If we’re trying to figure out who has it out for the Penguin, we have a long list to go through,” Harvey commented, not as exasperated as he could be. In fact, he sounded amused as he tipped his head towards Oswald. “Is there anyone in Gotham who you haven’t pissed off?”

The curl of his lip was a more successful sneer this time. Without any retort to voice Oswald covered his eye with his hand, leaning into his palm as if he could ignore Harvey without seeing him.

Jim nearly laughed when the phone rang a second time. Reaching for it again, he didn’t get the chance to state his name, the person on the other end faster.

“ _James_.”

His eyes widened, the voice a perfect match, soft and low, but not too low to not be inaudible.

“Who is this?” he asked, gesturing sharply to Harvey to get to the phone on his desk, directly outside the office.

“James, you know exactly who this is.”

“No I don’t, not when you are sitting directly across from me,” Jim argued, to which Lucius twisted to look at him, and Oswald dropped his hand to the armrest of his chair, gripping it tight.

“Oh. Dear me. That wasn’t how things were supposed to go.” Oswald’s voice remained on the other end of the call, disappointed, which was certainly unnerving as Oswald leaned in, lips twitching uselessly. Lucius went to the door, closing it gently, giving him the opportunity to switch the call over to speakerphone. “Well, I maintain my anonymity, because he never did see me, nor does he have the ability to answer your questions.”

“Wouldn’t you like to claim your accomplishment by giving us your moniker? Don’t you want the city to know who got one-over on the Penguin?” Jim asked, leaning forward in his chair.

“The game is not yet over, I haven’t accomplished everything that I have planned for that bird. And besides, this will be a one-over for both of you. We were never the enemy, we were victims. Now good day gentlemen, I still have work to do.” 

Jim set the phone back down on the cradle, regarding Oswald. If this was against them, something that they held in common, then someone would be coming after him too. Except so far, he had yet to be ambushed, but at least now he was informed to be on guard.

Oswald was exhaling heavily, shoulders tense as he scratched his throat with his thumb, but when he looked up from the phone, he mouthed one word, but it wasn’t one instantly recognisable. “You’ll need to do that again,” Jim pointed out, trying to focus on determining the word Oswald was trying to shape, repeating it a second time.

This was going to be a hard case to crack, and to reverse, if there was a way to cure Oswald. 

By the fourth unsuccessful try, Jim rubbed the back of his head, the day grating on his nerves. Stressful. Another unusual Gotham day.

Weird even.

He blinked, lowered his hand. “Say that again, one more time.”

Oswald quirked an eyebrow but said the one word again. 

“Strange.”

Oswald nodded, his bearings relaxing a fraction.

Jim almost smiled, but knew that this was a thin lead.

Jim had apprehended or killed most of the escaped monsters, who were nothing more than Strange’s victims. Two died by the hands of the mob that Oswald had all but pitted against them. 

Yet Professor Strange was in the wind after his last engagement, working for the Court of Owls. Unless… “Do you know where Professor Strange is?” 

For only the second time that day, Oswald nodded.

*

Under any other circumstances, it would’ve been laughable, Harvey having to put up with the backseat drivers, Jim announcing Oswald’s hand directions to Harvey from the backseat. Professor Strange turned out to be not too far away, within the city’s limits, but using an abandoned house for his base of operations.

Strange looked disappointed when he saw him standing behind Oswald, Harvey joining him at his side. “This… isn’t what we agreed on Mr. Cobblepot. Last you told me, you were bringing Butch Gilzean to me for medical treatment,” Professor Strange commented, but held the door open for all of them to enter.

Oswald shrugged one shoulder, hand lifting up as though to placate him, but Jim stepped past him before Strange could address him further. “I’d be concerned about what that medical treatment would be, but we have other questions for you.”

“I can assure you detectives, I am running a legitimate business. Unfortunately Mr. Gilzean has been infected with poisons that Indian Hill had never properly disposed of, and I am available to treat him with safe, and tested, methods,” Professor Strange explained, turning to face Jim and Harvey.

“Huh, Indian Hill.” Harvey cocked his head, gesturing as though engaging in a casual conversation, and not police questioning procedure. “It’s surprising how many times that place continues to rear its ugly head. Just this morning we got a phone call from one of your monsters – wait, no – victims, that you experimented on while you were still employed at Arkham-slash-Indian Hill.”

“It appears that they were responsible for the bombing on the riverside, and it’s their intention to target Penguin,” Jim explained, gesturing to Oswald who had settled on staring at Strange.

“Well, Penguin and Captain Gordon,” Harvey corrected, tipping his hand to him.

“Oh.” Behind the rose-tinted glasses Strange’s eyes were wide before settling to a calmer disposition. “I bear responsibility for those individuals no more, not since they went their separate ways after the breakout. And, for all purposes, I assumed that they had all been apprehended or killed.”

“That’s what we thought too,” Harvey pointed out, almost conceding. “Until one of them tried killing Penguin, but at least they were successful in silencing him. I would call it a gift, but it’s been pretty hard to pursue this case when he can’t answer any of our questions to give us a clear picture of who we are looking for.”

“What do you mean?” Professor Strange asked, looking away from Oswald.

“They managed to steal his voice. Penguin has lost all ability to communicate, can’t even write out what happened this morning, but then the culprit in question phoned the precinct and I spoke to them. They spoke in Penguin’s voice while he sat across from me.” Jim regarded Strange expectantly, tipping his chin down slightly for emphasis. ”We need you to fill in the details on who we are dealing with.”

“It sounds like you already know what you are dealing with. There’s not much more I can elaborate on,” Strange replied, expression almost bored. “Yes, I gifted an individual to take the voices of other individuals. By chance, it also hinders all attempts at communication beyond nodding or shaking one’s head, or any body language for that matter. I like to call them a communication suppressant individual.” 

“We’re going to need more details than that,” Harvey interjected, not even trying to be patient. “I mean, I for one remember some rubber-faced experiment of yours that came into the precinct sounding like a picture-perfect Jim Gordon. Did you make more than one of those?”

“My work has always been focused on the one of a kind, the unique.” A beat, both Jim and Harvey staring at Strange, had him clearing his throat, not looking or acting put out for his slip out. “My previous work gentlemen, I assure you. Basil was the only person who I worked on to go give such attributes to.” 

“So we’re looking for someone else. Want to fill us in on that part? Man or woman? What do they look like? How would they have done this in the first place?” Harvey continued, even as Jim noticed the faint flush creeping onto Oswald’s face

Strange noticed the change in Oswald’s complexion too and barely kept back a smile. “If I recall correctly, they need to immobilize the person first.”

“Victim,” Jim corrected.

“It requires… mouth to mouth contact, and placement of the hand along the neck, specifically their throat. Something that resembles a caress, so, more often than not, they immobilize the individual by strangling them, but without the intent to kill. The individual dying nullifies the transfer of the voice from the individual to… the next,” Professor Strange added, watching as Oswald fidgeted under the scrutiny of not just him, but also Harvey and Jim’s. 

“Someone got their hands around your throat, and you didn’t think of fighting back?” Harvey asked, almost shaking his head but then laughed. “Or maybe you’re into that, I know that people are into some kinky stuff. But, who did you think was getting their kink off onto you, that you let them do it?”

Oswald ignored the question as best he could, though the commentary had turned him a brighter red. Instead he jabbed his finger in the direction of Strange, advancing on him, features tight underneath the cuts and bruises. “I can not answer why they decided to go after you,” Strange argued while retreating. “And I have told you what I know, so there’s nothing else I can do to help.”

“You can tell us how to reverse this,” Jim pointed out, once Oswald had backed Strange against the counter.

“I have never seen if there is a way to stop it, or reverse it.” Strange didn’t look threatened, even though he gave Oswald an apologetic look, something that didn’t lessen Oswald’s anger.

“Well, didn’t your… experiment test their abilities on someone?” Harvey asked, stating what had to be obvious, for a man of science to not watch the test personally, and to see them through to the end, especially Professor Strange, would be very uncommon. “What happened after the tests?”

Strange kept his expression mostly blasé, although behind his glasses there was a fleeting glance of mirth. “That is… hard to say.”

“Can’t say you didn’t ask for that!” Harvey called over his shoulder, following after Oswald storming out of the house, leaving Strange behind to brush his fingers over his stinging cheek.

Outside, standing alongside the car, although Oswald was leaning against it, arms crossed tight again as he vibrated with indignation, Harvey gestured to Oswald, unmoving as he was. “There could be something gained by… whoever this person is, taking advantage of having Penguin’s voice, and taking what little remains of his assets, property – and what not, making all the requests by phone. Drain him dry of what he has left.”

“In addition to killing him,” Jim reminded, to which Oswald scuffed his foot. Jim glanced over to him, spying the dirty look he cast his way without lifting his head, rubbing his throat. “Which we are not going to let happen. We’ll figure out a way to stop them, reverse this…”

“Want me to go back and finish questioning Strange?” Harvey asked, although he gestured to Oswald. “I want to bring Penguin in for back up. It’s nice not being the bad cop for once.”

Jim shrugged, considering the house. “We need to solve this case quickly, and we need to keep Oswald safe. I don’t think Jeremiah loaned out all his bombs but a second attempt on his life again is not out of the question. Does anyone else know that Strange is currently working from here? He did mention Butch.”

Oswald looked up long enough to shake his head. With a weary glance, he tipped his head back to the doors before lifting his eyebrows inquiringly to him. 

“Yeah, it would be best if you stay here. At least no one knows Strange is here, so you would be safe too. Just… don’t kill him. And try to help him jog his memory, there’s got to be something he’s not sharing,” Jim added, watching Oswald enter through the front door before getting into the car. 

“All we know is that we’re dealing with one of Strange’s monsters, who has a grudge against Penguin. Says they are going after you, but so far you haven’t been attacked,” Harvey pointed out, once they were at the nearest intersection, navigating the streets. 

“Lucky me.” Jim shook his head as he flipped his phone shut. “Evidence has finished being gathered at the scene. Maybe fingerprints can be found on the bomb from the first warehouse, any evidence from the second warehouse would be limited. Just the detonator and anything that was found on Oswald’s clothes.”

“I’m sure he loved that,” Harvey remarked dryly.

“We need to find this person, and we have no leads,” he argued, sinking back into the seat. “Oswald might not like it but this is his life on the line, he’s willing to cooperate.”

“Of course he would have to.” Affording to look away from the street for one second, Harvey smirked at him. “Getting ready to gather in this favour, saving his life?”

“We are solving a case,” he emphasised, slipping his phone into his pocket. “He just happened to be at the scene of one of two bombings, so he’s a person of interest, and a victim as someone is still intending to kill him.”

“And, when you arrest the bomber, I’m sure he’ll be willing to pull some strings for you. Which, after the information on Jerome’s attack, and phoning in on Jeremiah’s attacks-“

He glanced over to Harvey when he stopped talking. “What?”

“I hate to say it, but Oswald has fairly often proven to be an asset to you. He has helped you with cases more than once.” He could see the wheels turning in Harvey’s head, and even he had to wonder what was the connection that Oswald’s adversary was pursuing, as far as it went between him and Oswald. “You don’t have current cases that are riding on any information he’s providing, or his own personal involvement?”

“No.” The recent threat of bombs, by one Valeska and then another, were the last cases cleared from his desk. Yet his mind was connecting to what Jeremiah had said over the phone. Oswald had made many people angry over the years, it was possible that there was more than one person abetting the mimic. “Strange mentioned Butch, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, last I heard he was back with Galavan.” Chuckling under his breath, Harvey nodded, getting ready to change lanes. “Now, if that’s not a story that there’s hope for me finding a good-looking woman looking for a guy like me, nothing is impossible.” 

“Stay in this lane.” He fished his phone back out of his pocket, dialing up the precinct. “This is Captain Gordon, I need a patrol car to go to the following address.” He named off the address for the house they were last at. “It may look like it’s abandoned, but there are two people inside. Professor Strange and Penguin. They are not to be arrested. Professor Strange needs to be questioned and protected, and Penguin – well, make sure that he stays there. Also, issue an APB for a Basil Karlo. Yeah, him. Ideally this is to rule him out as a suspect but bring him to the station for questioning. He might be able to help us out.”

“And where are we going?” Harvey asked, still driving straight as he wasn’t given further directions.

“The Iceberg Lounge, now renamed The Sirens under Barbara’s ownership,” Jim explained, putting his phone away. “Maybe Tabitha is there, maybe she isn’t, but those two do stand to gain more with Oswald out of the picture.” 

“Are we going to wind up doing a full sweep of the city?” Harvey asked, cutting off a vehicle to get into the left turn lane. “Oh, no. We don’t need to worry about questioning Sofia Falcone.” It was meant to be sarcastic, but it shifted to weariness quickly enough. “But do we really need to round up the rest of Gotham’s worst?”

“Don’t you want to get a favour out of Penguin for all of this?” 

“I don’t know, I always thought that was your thing.”

Arriving at The Sirens they found Barbara and Tabitha directly in the bar, not up in the office as he knew where it was, at least when Oswald had used the bar for his own businesses. It was almost disappointing to see Tabitha, hoping to have something pinned to her. Yet Barbara could back up everything that Tabitha detailed to them. Penguin had offered to get Butch cured, had made the offer to Tabitha in Barbara’s presence, and they were waiting on him to get back to them with Strange’s price and location.

Tabitha was still waiting. Hadn’t heard a word, by phone or in person, from Penguin, but the frustration and the threat that she wasn’t voicing, but evident in the way she sat and didn’t quite glare, made it seem authentic. She needed Penguin alive; getting him out of the picture, or killing him, before knowing how to get to Strange, wouldn’t work to her benefit.

“You could always ask Riddler, they are always on the outs,” Barbara added, her tone facetious more than helpful. “But, I also heard that Lee tried stabbing him, so… you probably won’t go after either of them, unless you really wanted to arrest her for a second time.”

“Where would we even find Lee?” Harvey asked when they were back outside. It was a legitimate question. She could still be in the Narrows, but if she had committed an actual crime, she would likely be on the move, or at least hiding somewhere that wasn’t Cherry’s or the clinic. “And, not that I don’t believe she doesn’t have it in her to kill Riddler, but what are the chances that Riddler would actually stay dead?”

It did seem like the lowlifes of the city were the ones fortunate enough to get nine lives when everyone else had to accept only one, short ones even. Jim shook his head in answer to Harvey but his shoulders loosened when the person who had phoned him gave him good news. “Alright, Basil has been located, brought into the precinct,” he informed Harvey once the call was finished. “The officers did inquire about the bombing to which he denied but they explained they are looking for someone with similar abilities to his own, so cooperating with them would help to get him eliminated from the list of suspects.”

“Good, so we might actually get a description this time.” Harvey looked impressed, tapping the top of his car. “A location on them would be better. There’s been no more reports of suspicious activity on the riverfront, or anywhere for that matter.”

They quickly needed information from Basil to work with, maybe to determine the mimic’s next move, but at the least to put a description out to locate them. At this point they were chasing a ghost, one who was very happy to commit misdeeds under the seeming guise of Penguin, or at least using his voice to their advantage. “They may still be allied with Jeremiah, but if his only involvement was to loan out the bombs then they haven’t had contact with him since.”

“We don’t even know where he is either.” Harvey adjusted his hat, fidgeting with his hands since he wouldn’t be getting into the car until they determined where to look next. “What happened to having a dead-nuts give away for an evil lair? Galavan’s penthouse? Indian Hill? Iceberg Lounge?”

“Complain about that to Oswald. The good news is you won’t have to listen to him argue back.” It would be awfully helpful to be able to get information from Oswald, but he was the reason that they had to find the mimic in the first place. “Alright, not the warehouses, not the riverfront.”

If only they could benefit from putting out an APB out on anyone sounding like Penguin.

His phone ringing, he pulled it back out from his pocket, puzzled when it was Oswald’s name appearing on the screen. “Would it be too much to hope that this is the mimic, or the real Oswald?” he asked once he accepted the call. 

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Cobblepot is still unable to speak for himself, but I was prompted to assist with a few things I hadn’t remembered earlier,” Strange replied, to which Jim didn’t hold back his exasperation. 

“You mean the things you chose not to tell us.” Pinching his nose with his free hand he resisted the urge to grind his teeth together. “Alright, out with it, we need something to work with.”

“Well, it has more to do with the other effects of having one’s voice taken,” Strange explained, not rushing at all with his words despite the clear encouragement. “The subjects who assisted with the testing process experienced sore throats as the testing proceeded, meaning as she used the test subject’s voice more often-“

“She? Okay, how tall is she – what colour hair, complexion-“

“The condition of their throat worsened. I didn’t think of it until I saw Mr. Cobblepot rubbing his throat, which is when I left to get him tea. That was when I saw the police cruiser in front of the house, which was not a comfort Captain, if that is not a calling card for suspicious activity in the house, that would definitely alert people to what’s going on in the house.”

He really didn’t like how the explanation was turning, brow furrowing. “Strange-”

Professor Strange continued as though he had never cut him off. “It is for my own safety to keep my anonymity, and to remain hidden from the public eye. Unfortunately, while I was occupied explaining that to the officers that you had sent in… Mr. Cobblepot had gone. Missing.”

“I find it doubtful that he left on his own,” he argued, remembering how Oswald had re-entered the house, not even needing persuasion on the matter. “He agreed to stay while the house was identified as abandoned, and with the police presence, it would further keep him from being targeted for a second time. They would be protection.” For someone who claimed to be a man of science, Strange truly lacked common sense.

“That may be the case, but I am providing you with this information as we are in a time sensitive situation. I discovered that Mr. Cobblepot was likely taken by force, when I returned the room he was last in, I found blood drops on the floor.”

He was very tempted to arrest Strange all over again. “He was assaulted, and dragged out of the house?” Under the noses of the officers’, and Strange’s own intelligence and supposedly enhanced vision, though the more he learned about the man, he was fairly sure Strange lived in his own rose-tinted world of fantasy and delusional experiments.

“Assaulted? Maybe. Chances are… she was in the house, and talking to him as she dragged out, perhaps subduing him with force. But, the problem with the sore throat, is that it is the first stage in deterioration of the subject. The second stage is, as she uses their voice more often, the strain on her victim’s vocal cords intensify, causing them to start bleeding. So he may have been coughing up blood by that point. Or coughing and bleeding from an external wound. Perhaps both.” 

“Is there anything else you want to tell me now? Or do you want to save that information for when we drag you into the precinct for a proper interrogation?” Jim demanded, getting into the car. Harvey, listening to his growing temper, had already started up the car, ready to drive at his signal. 

“Time necessitates that you return to me.”

*

Half an hour later, Strange was as close as he would look to being chastened, handcuffed and escorted to the police cruiser. Knowing that interrogation would be the first step towards worser things if he didn’t comply, he showed them where the blood spatter began, leading from a sitting room separate from the back of the house that was established as his medical rooms. 

In his mind, morbid and worried enough, Jim called it the waiting room, before patients, voluntary or involuntarily, were taken to the back.

The backdoor, kept separate from the two medical rooms by a short hall way, was where the blood drops passed through, to a back alley where they found a woman with a stern expression looking down at them, from her third-floor apartment in the low-rise on the opposite side.

While Strange was able to give a description of the mimic – a woman by the name of Viola Rousseau with a wiry build, of average height and short dark black curly hair – the woman who allowed them to come up to her apartment described the vehicle Viola got away in, dragging out a man who was mostly unconscious, blood dripping from his chin.

Jim was prepared to get a poor description of the vehicle, and while she did say it was a grey three-door, maybe four-door van, in which the unconscious man was dumped into the back, the older woman did make out the last half of the license plate when it peeled out of the alley.

Twenty minutes ago.

“This is your last chance Strange, if you have anything you’ve yet to disclose, this is the time to say it. Your tendency to censor your words is only going to make your sentence worse,” Jim warned, hailing the uniformed officers to stop from putting Strange in the back of their cruiser.

“Mr. Cobblepot’s health is rapidly deteriorating. Coughing up blood is never a good sign, but there are other risks involved. He’ll likely require medical treatment as soon as you find him,” Strange explained, allowed to move a little to face both men. 

“Determining where Viola Rousseau has gone to is proving to be a problem. There is no record of a deceased Viola Rousseau, or as a patient at Arkham. In fact, we don’t have any paperwork of her at all in any Gotham records,” Harvey pointed out, flipping his own phone shut and stepping into Strange’s personal space.

“She wasn’t born in Gotham City, she lived out in a rural town within the county. Viola was born unable to speak and was brought to Gotham General several times through her childhood,” Strange elaborated, trying to adjust his stance despite the handcuffs and the grip on both arms. “It was through an initiative through Pinewood Farms that her parents allowed her to be transferred from the hospital to Pinewood for treatment.”

“I would commend you for your selfless acts of generosity, but everyone knows better than that by now.” Harvey rubbed his face, grimacing. “We’re going to need her records now, we need to find out where she’s going.”

“I can not confirm where she might be. After the project was terminated, she may have gone back to her family home – her father passed away before Pinewood was closed. Or she was assisted in finding housing by Thomas Wayne, as I’ve since learned he did for at least one other patient,” Strange commented, frowning slightly.

“She may even go back to Pinewood Farms.” With only two concrete leads, and one that still held potential, albeit with no address, Jim shook his head. “We need any records that anyone has. If you have old medical records, or can pull up an address for her family home through her hometown, do it. Immediately, call ahead to the precinct,” Jim instructed, addressing Strange first then the two police officers. “And contact Bruce Wayne too. He was able to find Jenning’s address, perhaps there’s one for a Rousseau too.” 

“Oooh, does this mean we get to go to the creepy abandoned mad scientists’ lab?” Harvey asked, enthusiasm for the idea clearly forced. 

He would be more excited if someone else found Viola and Oswald, knowing that their trip upstate would take the most time out of all three possibilities. “Yeah, and let’s hope that we can find Oswald before his condition gets worse.”

Taking the address from Strange, and receiving directions over the radio from the precinct, they went straight to Pinewood Farms. When their estimated time of arrival was given as ten minutes the precinct phoned for the nearest hospital from Pinewood, requesting an ambulance to meet them at the abandoned building.

They already received word from the officers sent to her former residence, her mother answering the door and reporting that she last saw Viola perhaps five years ago. They had no leads on where she was currently living, but unless she was living under an alias, she wasn’t within the city or county. Bruce said he and Alfred would consult his father’s books but whether they would find any relevant information was uncertain.

Jim hoped that his bad feeling had more to do with the derelict building rather than being too late. He wanted to find them at Pinewood Farms, otherwise they’d be searching her up by name in all the surrounding counties, if she wasn’t further away. 

Yet, pulling into the driveway in front of the building, there was a grey van, the last half of the license plate matching what their witness recited for them.

“An ambulance isn’t the kind of backup I was hoping for,” Harvey admitted, service weapon removed as soon as he got out of the car. “How long until they arrive?”

Looking up and down the road, not seeing the familiar flashing lights, he squared off his shoulders with a grim exhale. “No more than five minutes. 

“Let’s not keep this Viola waiting that long,” Harvey insisted, making his way to the front door first, but once they were inside they staggered themselves only slightly behind each other, guns drawn. 

It would’ve been reassuring to hear anything aside from rustled movements, spotting evidence of vermin. The only sounds he wanted to hear was a fight or Oswald’s voice. They were somewhere inside, but not in the immediate proximity. 

“Four floors of hell,” Harvey mumbled, having checked on the rooms that were to the left of the first junction they came to. Those that weren’t locked were empty. One was an admittance room, several offices inside, but with none of the hardware that offices were equipped with. Any valuable information, stripped away along with humanity. 

Jim read the reports on Pinewood Farms, had heard first hand from Alfred what the place looked like. Resuming their search, heading right, doors were wide open, showing evidence of what medical practises did take place inside. “Labs, medical rooms, operating rooms. It might look like a clinic but this place never did anyone any good.”

“This was Strange’s playground, so I’m not surprised.” It took them only a couple more minutes to clear the first floor, and they stopped as they came towards a stairwell, the door leading to it missing, detached from the hinges, not even lying somewhere in the hallway, under garbage and transplanted outdoor foliage. “Only four more floors to search,” Harvey added, laughing even though the outlook, and search, was thus far bleak.

“It would be easier to search this place if it wasn’t so quiet,” he muttered, straining to hear any note of Oswald’s voice.

“They just don’t design top-secret biological labs like they used to. What happened to the days of screaming patients that you could hear from every floor?” Harvey headed towards the stairs, already up several steps. “They’re already subjected to terror. In space, no one can hear you scream. Arkham, you heard everyone scream. Mad-scientist lair? Should be screaming.”

“You can bring that up at the next City Hall council meeting.” He followed after Harvey, but after a thump and a long screech of metal being dragged, they both stopped. “That… didn’t sound like it came from upstairs.”

“There’s got to be a basement. If Arkham has one, this place has to too.” The sound persisted, the thumping and scratching of metal, the thumping sure enough sounding below. “But this stairwell doesn’t go down.”

“The door next to it.” The stairwell was not enclosed but there was a door immediately to the left of it, and running out to it, testing the handle, the door gave way immediately, swinging open. There were no lights, and the stairwell was narrow, but as they made their way down, a faint light came from outside of the stairwell, a large flashlight positioned to illuminate upwards. 

“You… and your atrocities!” It was Oswald’s voice but the pitch lowered too soon, leaving them looking both ways, trying to determine which way Viola was. It was the coughing that followed, not being able to control how loud or long it persisted, that had Harvey gesturing to the left, both of them getting their guns up.

Darkness returned within several steps and they scanned the basement, aware that the sound they heard was a chair – and Jim imagined it was like the chairs in the medical rooms upstairs, reclined backwards, straps around the leg supports and armrests, the whole contraption metal. It matched with the way the sound shuddered, as though someone was trying to shake free of their bindings, the chair shifting and scratching along the cement floor with every attempted shake.

Not just someone, but Oswald, and he picked up his pace at the same time as Viola started yelling again.

“We did nothing wrong, unlike you! You are the criminal, we were all victims! You and Jim Gordon never cared about us, only concerned that you gained from imprisoning us all over again! Or killing us! The only good thing you did was letting me find Professor Strange, at least he will finally be brought to justice for what he did to us!” Accusations to Oswald, seemingly spoken by the same man, but also addressing his own actions. “You were always so concerned about saving your neck, and guess what? You’re going to die, by your own throat. You can already feel it, can you? Ratting out anyone as long as you benefitted from it. How many people are going to thank me for doing the city a favour? More than you can count!”

Jim had done things he regretted, but as was pointed out today, he often benefited by Oswald sharing what bits of information he gleaned. 

Did Oswald regret that now, in the position he was in?

“GCPD! Show yourself!” he yelled, staring into the darkness, trying to find any point of reference for Oswald or Viola.

A point of light bloomed further down, giving them an aiming point for their guns. He had hoped that it would bring Viola into their sightline but instead it was a metal chair, much as he imagined, with Oswald strapped down to it, as he coughed viciously, shaking and trying to lurch his head forward, but his head was also strapped down. 

“James Gordon.” The voice, and Viola, even as she spoke in Oswald’s voice, seemed to come from everywhere. “Self-serving Jim Gordon, not the hero of the GCPD as you wish you are. How many times did you play lawman instead of police man? Thinking you could be the ‘Be All’ for the city? Your city is overrun with criminals, not just your favourite little songbird Penguin, but you are not unlike them yourself. How many crimes have you committed?”

“This is about you Viola Rousseau. You abducted and intended to kill a man when you blew up the warehouse by the river. You injured him – and expect him to die, yes?” Jim looked around, hoping to catch sight of something that didn’t look like shadow. It didn’t help that she was supposed to have black curly hair. “And I can assure you, Professor Strange has been arrested. He’s going to be charged with obstruction of justice. With your help, we can ensure that his sentencing be more severe. We know he’s committed countless crimes, against humanity. Against you and so many others.”

“Is that supposed to be a comfort?” He jerked his head to the right, and thought he saw movement, but realised it was only Harvey, looking just as bewildered unable to see their target. “Tell me, Captain Gordon, what will your sentence be? Which of your crimes will you be jailed for?”

“Penguin is an easy scapegoat for you. Yes, he’s committed crimes, and did his time in Arkham, but what happened to you, and other people, is the result of two people,” Jim stated, moving carefully, gun steady as he sought out any movement that wasn’t Harvey. At least he was close enough that he could distinguish him in the dark. “Professor Strange. He performed experiments here and at Indian Hill. The other person, Fish Mooney, may have aided the escape of the Indian Hill victims, but she roped them into working for her. To her, they were her hoodlums to do her bidding. She was no different than Strange, I saw them together, they were allies. They needed each other.” 

“Like you and Penguin?” He spun around, swearing he whispered into his ear. He nearly banged into Harvey but did a quick sidestep to avoid the collision. If Viola was there, she had retreated, or was beyond the short distance past his nose that he could see. “You two are criminals of your own kind, just claiming order as your modus operandum, unlike the chaos so many others reign under.”

No wonder she was able to work out a deal with Jeremiah. “And you are trying to restore order? Create something better?”

“More or less. At least fix Gotham by ridding it of the people who claim to be working for the good of the everyday man.” The laugh that reached his ears sounded exactly like Oswald’s that he had to give himself a good shake. “The Professors, the Jim and the Gordons and the Penguin. All of you. What have you done that has really done any good?”

“Jim?” Harvey’s voice startled him, having been fixated on Oswald – no Viola – that to hear him speak up, it took him a moment to register what was going on. 

In the few seconds that followed he registered silence. Viola wasn’t talking, and the coughing had ceased.

Twisting towards the lantern light, Oswald was slumped back in the chair, succumbing to his bindings. 

So he hoped.

He made to run towards Oswald, but was clipped hard on the shoulder. The impact jarred heavily, something solid and heavy enough that he heard a crack, pain flashing in pinprick quick white light. He staggered, the only reason he managed to avoid a second blow, which gave Harvey the opportunity to lash out, charging and apparently impacting with Viola, who yelled out with the familiar shriek that was Oswald’s voice.

Scrambling towards the chair, pushing himself up from the floor with his hands so he was running, he stopped in a crouched position before kneeling, grabbing to twist the chair into a better position to see. The light was positioned at an angle to only show blood as a black slick on Oswald’s chin and lips, dried stains on Oswald’s jacket and shirt. The straps that restrained him were not locked down, allowing him to work on them quickly, but even as he freed him, head first then his arms, Oswald didn’t budge.

Coughing up blood.

But, since his head was restrained down…

He grabbed the straps around his legs, undoing them more roughly to allow speed, pulling Oswald to the ground perhaps unsafely but he needed to check, his cheek over his mouth, ear over his nose.

No breath, and as he scrambled to get his fingers into position, first wrist and then his neck, he realised there was no pulse.

A second source of light came into the darkness, forcing him to squint his eyes. The contrast between the two extremes made it nearly impossible to discern more than three figures running towards them, but one was carrying an electrical lantern much like the one behind him. Another circled around, pulling him back, the other two kneeling on the other side of Oswald.

Grimacing as his shoulder was clutched, nearly tumbling back onto his ass, dizziness claimed him. He was fairly sure he didn’t go unconscious, registering the light source even as the commotion intensified, but what happened in the next few minutes was not comprehended, and not even Harvey was any help when he joined them, trying to get him to focus on him, the repeated attempts of saying his name falling on ears that was consumed with the pounding of his heartbeat, blood pulsing through his own body.

He wasn’t sure how many hours had passed when he came back to his senses, but he was half-asleep in a bedside chair, jolting up and away from a thin mattress where his head had sought refuge.

“Have you ever been told you’re a horrible patient?” 

He rubbed his eyes with his fingers, realising he could only do so with his left hand, his right arm in a sling. “I think… a couple of times.” Sitting up entirely, trying to blink away the sleep that clouded his eyes and brain, he was surprised to find a nurse looking down at him, his eyebrow arched in amusement. “Um… sorry, it’s been a long day, and I’ve been travelling – so, which hospital am I in?”

“You’re in Gotham General, Captain. And last I checked, you were supposed to be recovering in the room next door, unless someone released you earlier than you were allowed.” Jim resisted the urge to yawn, doing his best to listen and focus on the nurse. His mind was sharp enough to appreciate that he knew who was talking, and it wasn’t an unseen, moving figure in the dark.

Pinewood Farms. Viola Rousseau.

“Is Detective Bullock anywhere in hospital?” 

“From what I heard, he was accompanying the arrested to holding at your precinct. So, I guess I have you to blame for escaping your bed and room.” The man’s tone softened a little, looking aside to the bed. “You’ll be happy to know he is alright.”

“Harvey?” Last he remembered, if his mind was truly shaking off the pain medication and sleep, and according to his shoulder, he was, Harvey hadn’t suffered any injuries. If anything he delivered a blow to Viola after she attacked him.

“Penguin. He had suffered a few injuries, nothing too serious, but suffocating on his blood. He’ll need to stay overnight, and it’ll be a few more hours for you, to assess how well you’re handling the pain medication.” He was subjected to another once over, to which he straightened up to the best of his ability. His shoulder was killing him, but at least the rest of his body was cooperating, aside from the lingering tiredness. “Considering the pain medication was in your intravenous, the one you left in your room, you’ve got to be in a lot of pain.”

“It’s manageable.” 

“I doubt it,” the nurse commented, shaking his head. “Do not disturb the patient. If he does wake up, he is not allowed to talk. He needs to rest his voice. There is a pad of paper and pen on the table beside you.”

A couple of minutes later, the intravenous wheeled into the room, and the nurse not as delicate as he wished he would be to reinsert the line, he finally relaxed back into the chair, told to sit straight and back in the chair to put less strain on his shoulder. He normally prided himself on his posture but at this angle, he was further away from the bed, even with his knees against the edge of the bed rail.

Out of his bloodstained clothes, his face cleaned, one wouldn’t have known what was the cause for Oswald’s stay at the hospital. Stitches for a headwound wouldn’t take long to be done, and perhaps there would’ve been an assessment to make sure there wasn’t further head trauma. Now, at rest, he looked unharmed, sleeping and at peace, not plotting his next move to lay claim and control over the city.

Viola was right, Oswald was a criminal, but knowing his plight, seeing him as a victim – not unlike her, long ago – reminded him that he was human. He knew that before today, the many times they butted heads, there was always a spark. On certain days Oswald enjoyed it, the tension and getting one over on him, but there were the other days, when he realised Oswald’s gaze looked into him, and still didn’t back off despite the secrets he had.

That spark drew him in too, and there were the times that Oswald knew that he felt it too.

Working quietly he tried to move the chair to a better angle. With the order to not lean forward, but also contending with the intravenous on the other side, he eventually managed to position the chair so he could touch the edge of Oswald’s fingers on his own, a soft brush knowing the third warning, not to wake him up.

He heard a low exhale, maybe a yawn, and he allowed his gaze to drift to Oswald’s face. His lips twitched once, and while he admired the delicate slope of his cheek, his skin just a tiny bit brighter thanks to the contrast of the starched white pillow, he made sure that there was no other movement, that he was still asleep.

A minute passed before he placed his fingers on top of Oswald’s, careful of the intravenous in his hand. 

He had started to slip back asleep, drugs dulling the pain and his mind, but startled when he felt Oswald’s hand shift out from under his. 

His palm, the tips of his fingers, were just as soft as the back of his hand as he stroked along his hand. Caught, Jim glanced to Oswald, his expression soft but lips starting to pull into a smirk. 

He huffed lightly, about to give an excuse, one that he used to easily barter back, but there was no point. He had been holding his hand, and the urgency of the whole day was not fully dependent on the case, but knowing that Oswald was in danger. 

He settled on a half-smile, feeling his cheeks warm.

The smirk slipped away from Oswald’s face, expression content as he spoke, a rasp accompanying his name. “Ja-”

“I’m going to get in trouble if you don’t rest your voice,” he warned, to which Oswald huffed in turn, the arch of his eyebrow knowing. “Oh sure, as if you haven’t caused enough trouble the past week either.”

Oswald tightened his grip but conceded, sighing as he shut his mouth. 

At some point they would have a lot to talk about, but for now, the silence was necessary.


End file.
